LittleMissBlacklight

He is nothing to love. His eyes bulge out of his skill. He speaks like a small child. He is a small child, I am a small child, we are strangers in a strange land. Once I was running as fast I could through the forest and I fell hard between some thick vines that looked like long tunnels of ginger. My feet got caught in them and my reflexes aren't at all quick, so I fell, face-first, into a puddle of sticks and mud and river. My legs were black and blue for weeks. And I want to tell him: I swear in the epicenter of a green bruise that I got years ago on my knee I saw your face, in a strange way I have always thought that contusions are the m

Last night, I met Jesus. I'd never known him to hang around bus stops, but then again, I'd never known myself to. I think it all started when the insomnia did, when I couldn't force my lungs into the mechanisms of sleep so I climbed, stumble-toed, right leg dragging, through the cold bedroom window and into mid-June. I didn't worry about them finding my uneven bed sheets in a confused heap at the foot of my double anymore. Besides, they wouldn't. Charlotte was still asleep on her side, eight feet away, probably dreaming of tomatoes and the moon and other things that perfect, curly-haired sisters would dream about. I remember when we were tod

Norah could remember her mother's funeral. She was seven years old and spoke of death like a long vacation. One of her vague, unfamiliar aunts, Dolores (or maybe it was Marcia), went out to Marshall's to buy her a pair of black dress shoes. They were black t-straps; their patent leather flowers had gummy scoff marks on them. Their soles grew clammy and slippery when Norah tried to walk in them, crunching her toes into the end like a ballet dancer. "Flowers are not for funerals," her father had grunted as he'd struggled with a pair of scissors, trying to remove the $17.99 (originally $32.00) price tag. Her mother's casket held a stone cold w

She'd never really had any experience with carving pumpkins. It was something that her dad did and said, "Norah, hold this, will you?" while he passed her a body-severing knife without a smiley face on the end. So she holdthissed as she watched him carefully plot out exaggerated facial features on the ridged pumpkin that was not meant for drawing on. The pen would catch in between some of the ridges and fall slightly, and he would mutter to himself, something about god damned pumpkins. God damned trick or treaters. She would hand the knife back to him (his eyes full of sweat and tears and shellshock) and he would carve out the pumpkin-skull's

We were binary stars. You stood above me with a bowl of sour milk and kicked me to get up.  It's still alive. I'd write a haiku but I can't get it all out in 5/7/5. You lent me your jacket that was covered with burnt, straight hair.  It's been a year. We met in a summer choked out by urbane smog and artificial dye, running around in water sprinklers, throwing up our scribbled-on fists like conquerors. We'd slide into our pants and sit in front of your blinking monitor and wait for your mom to come home.  I wished upon you. We'd drag each other around, sucking on Oranginas and caramel macchiattos, the black coffee mixing with the w

     The blood switchbladed out of her and her clay-colored organs untied the veins surrounding them (he hadn't even cared to stitch her up) and she pretended the mock-leather eraser gray of the bus seat would act as catgut as the yellow slave-ship crawled through the streets like a parasite, swaying from side to side like slow frames in a cheaply made anime movie. Mudclouds fed off the belly of heaven and she looked around for some sort of a gauze but found nothing, only black-lace corsets. She didn't want to wear that, didn't want to be another tan tight-stomached girl slathered in baby oil, growling at cameras, wav

clementine-gold shine heatmaps onto her fingers as the telephone voice reverberates in her ears, uncurling her spine and ignoring that soon the emerald-jade salt leaves of trees will dip into nocturne and the tinkerbell glittergreen of the energy drink will tumble into grass gravity tugs her ripped fishnet tights somewhere near the library and planes leave cottontrails on the sky, nearly flagellum as their clouds fall behind the funeral home crossroads her sunglasses bury themselves in her checkerboard bag, then fold over like a plastic red fish toy, coated with the remnants of cinderella-blue sparkles from new year's eve, when she had tort